That night I shared my plan with her: “I know you’ve had a hard week. I’m sending a massage therapist to your room tomorrow. Sebastian will be there at 2pm.”
“Oh my god, really? You are so sweet.”
He offers all kinds of massages, all kinds of approaches. He can even give you a “pectoral massage”.
She picked one up without thinking.
As she wrapped her fingers around it, his text from last night replayed in her mind, jolting her into a realization of how she was actually holding the vegetable.
Self conscious, she snapped out of it.
She quickly forgave herself. There was nobody around.
She picked up another cucumber, this time, holding it more imaginatively.
Unapologetically.
At its peak ripeness, every one of its cells were full of water. It was heavy. If it were a balloon, it would burst – but the dutiful cucumber held its water for the moment when someone would devour it.
The cucumber reminded her of him. His urgency.
His dimensionality.
His voice. The way he looks at her when she’s being bold.
“She knows exactly what she is doing, this is HER place. She knows she could be seen here.”
She is completely lost in the act.
It dawns on me:
She knows exactly what she is doing, this is HER place. She knows she could be seen here.”
“‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’
‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.
‘I don’t much care where—’ said Alice.
‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.”
— Lewis Carroll
I’ll do what the cat says.